Essay - My House

I wrote this essay when I was 5. And I spoke of all that I had in my house. 4 rooms, a lawn, a car, loving parents, a sibling. On the verge of 25, I write this essay again. And I realize I don't have a house yet. I have a few places with loved ones I can call home and go live at but I don't have a house. 


I don't have a house that's devoid of noise and that feels like me. I don't have a house with a reading room - a room with wall-to-wall mattresses on the floor with shelves on 4 walls that stock books. I don't have a house with a small living room. If only I had a house it would have had pictures in solid black frames. It would be a house with plants and without fish. If I had a house it'd smell of old books and lime. The house would have no extra racks. My house wouldn't have collections of antics. If I had a house, it wouldn't have a mini-bar. This hypothetical house of mine would be a purpose driven house, not aesthetics driven. It would have sunlight that I couldn't handle. It would have 2 long chairs. Just 2. The house would feel like me and have bright colors. 


If I had a house, it would have no calendars but would have a huge wall clock. You ask why? So I'd know how many hours more I could read in the room with the wall-to-wall mattresses and how many hours before I drew the curtains. The clock would tell me when to water the plants and when to step out to smile at random people on streets. I'd sleep well before the clock strikes 12 and guess what? I wouldn't have to bother about the ticking calendar.